


Promptly Disregarded

by Innsmouth



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innsmouth/pseuds/Innsmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompts I've received and responded to. Will be updated relatively frequently.</p><p>Thank you to everyone who's sent one of these in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Feferi/Vriska, no other details given.)

You notice her watching one day, swimming along in Ampora’s wake like a shark after a wounded whale.

Then you notice that more accurately, she’s watching you.

Well,  _duh_. Of course she is.  
Who wouldn’t watch you? You’re mesmerizing even when you’re not trying! Not like you even  _have_ to try, of course. You get all the admir8tion. All of it.

You bold corsair, you.

_Yeah._

Well, maybe everyone who admires you gets eaten eventually, but _that_ doesn’t matter! You _know_ you’re awesome. That’s why she can’t take her eyes off you, obviously. She’s  _defin8tely_  not there for _him_.

But you’re too cool for her, so you never say hello, and so a pair of parenthetical horns bobs in the water day after day as you and Eridan duke it out (you always win, of course. Marquise Spinneret Mindfang always emerges victorious).  
  
Once, when you thrash him particularly badly, you magnanimously wave like the conquering hero you are.  
  
She waves back. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Jade/Vriska; rival gangsters.)

The long-filtered cigarette sticking out of the corner of Vriska’s mouth is kind of at odds with the rumpled suit she’s wearing, but since you’re toting a hunting rifle on the corner of Fifth and  
Main you don’t really have room to object (even if Grandpa would be proud that you’re prepared).  
Bec snarls at your side, and the crowd vanishes all at once; they know trouble when they see it.

Your newfound rival just shrugs, flicks open the biggest switchblade you’ve ever seen, and starts picking her nails with it.

Gross.

“You know you’re on my turf, right? Mine’s always run from Fourth Street to the docks, stupid. Piss off.”

And rude, too. Gosh.  
But you can deal with that.

“Mm, nope! The last I checked, everything you have is west of Ashton. So I think you’re on my turf.”  
Kill ‘em with kindness, Grandpa always said, so you give her the sappiest smile you can muster (which is pretty damn sappy).

“Yeah? Well, I’m not gonna bow down before you and your stupid mutt, so you better watch it before I—”

Okay, that’s enough out of her.

Without further ado, you lean forward, bring your hand up, and flick her stupid cig right into the gutter.  
And then you’re right up close, nose to nose and glasses to glasses, green to blue. 

“Before you what?” you say sweetly.

She glares at you, and you glare right back.

She steps back first.

You’re pretty sure she always will.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Rose/Karkat; no other details given.)

He slumps sullenly on the battered couch you’ve commandeered for your impromptu therapy session. 

No, not slumps.   
Glowers.   
If it were possible to wholly embody the word glower, the only being capable of this would be Karkat Vantas. You’re fairly certain that he knows that.

Living incarnation of a choice part of your vocabulary or not, you have a therapeutic nut to crack on the anvil of your mind, and so you shall.

“Satisfying though it may be, provoking Dave to the degree that he feels inspired to practice half-assed pro wrestling moves on you really isn’t the best idea,” you tell him.

He shows every one of his of jagged teeth in imminent protest, but then closes his mouth and exhales loudly through his nose.

“Yeah,” he says, “you’re probably right.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Roxy/Vriska; no other details given.)

You eyeball Miss Spidery Whatsherbutt like a champion eyeballer.  
  
You eyeball the _crap_ out of that girl.   
  
She just smirks at you over her glass, smug behind her wire-rimmed glasses and blank, glazed eyes.  
What are you doing, getting into a drinking contest with a dead god?   
  
 _Winning_ , that’s what.  
  
“What’s the matter, Lalonde?” she sneers. “ _Scaaaaaaaared?_ ”  
  
“Nope. I’mma _own_ you, Serket.”  
  
The expression on her face shifts to one of pure, mocking delight. “You totally are! I bet you’re just _quaking_ in fear on the inside because you think your sorry human toxin dispersal sac can’t handle it!”  
  
 _Uh_ -uh.  
  
Nobody talks about your liver like that (except you).  
  
You level an accusing finger at her fangily grinning face. “ _Oh_ no. It’s on now, girlfriend.”  
  
Vriska just smiles extra-wide and knocks back her first shot.  
You match her, steely-eyed and afire with hells of determination.  
  
You have _totally_  got this. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Jane/Kankri; taxidermy.)

When you think about it, the whole process is much like baking. There are directions to follow, obviously, but you do still need to eyeball things if you want to do it properly.

As Kankri natters on about how it's such a privilege to be able to indulge your mutual interests, you make the initial incision down the belly of your unfortunate rodent victim. The man in the shop had said that squirrels were best for beginners, so the two of you had settled on that.

There's no mystery to what you're doing, no element of intrigue. Every capillary and muscle is mapped out in its entirety; this is no work for a detective. Maybe Scarpetta would suit you more, bloody-handed and single-minded.

As you draw the scalpel down, you can feel Kankri's breath on your neck.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Kurloz/Meulin; gradual realization that all is not what it seems with him.)

You love him. You really, really love him.  
  
Oh my god, Kurloz gives you  _all of the feels, you have no idea._ You could just  _die._  Clearly, the two of you were made for each other! He’s the best, even if sometimes he’s a little weird.  
  
Like the time he’d texted you during your European Romanticism class asking you to get new knives because the ones he had weren’t sharp enough.  
  
Sharp enough for what? It doesn’t take much to slice a tomato. Or bread. Or whatever he eats.  
  
You’ve never seen him eat anything, actually. Huh.  
  
But you got him what he asked for.  
  
Or the time he’d left you a note on the counter in his clumsy, looping handwriting:  _ **Went out to snag some chicken for dinner. be back later. Love you! :o)**_  
  
He’d come home with a scratches on his hands, feathers in his hair, and no chicken.  
  
But you hadn’t asked.  
  
What stands out most is the time that you’d come home to find him on his knees and shirtless, the muscles in his arms standing out whipcord-stark as he scrubbed away at a puddle of blood seeping into the living-room carpet.   
  
He’d looked up at you as you’d come in.  
  
 _Help me,_  he’d signed.   
  
“Oh my  _god_. What  _happened_ , Kurloz? Are you okay?”   
  
He’d frowned, sad.  _I had a bro of mine come over, and he all went up and hurt himself. Sent him off to the ER. Help me clean up, kitten?_  
  
Instead of asking, you’d just grabbed a sponge and knelt alongside him.  
  
  
You hadn’t asked questions.  
  
  
Maybe you should have. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Aranea/Meenah; Aranea runs out of boondollars and has to pay for her exposition somehow. Secondary prompt requested rough sex.)

One of Meenah’s hands is wrapped around your horn.   
The other deftly divests you of your panties and lingers a moment as your bulge convulses, leaving a cerulean-blue trail over her wrist.   
“Look at that. Being wordy get you off? Or is it just me?”  
  
“I’m out of boondollars,” you breathe, “and I had to compensate you  _somehow_ , Meenah. The fact that you’re devilishly alluring was completely coinci-“  
  
She practically lunges forward to kiss you, shark-like teeth snagging on your lip and clacking against your fangs; the hand on your horn jerks your head at an angle as her tongue forces its way into your mouth. You can feel her pants tenting out against your thigh; she wants this badly, and any assertions to the contrary are enormous whopping lies.  
  
If she wants the full Serket, she’ll get the full Serket.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Meenah/Jane; at the beach.)

Jane always parks herself on a towel whenever you drag her out. She says that she's not so great in the water, which you think is a load of carp but fuck if you can do anything about it.  
  
You've learned that pushing her gets you nowhere, since she just pushes back. Flexibility doesn't come natural to you, but you're pretty sure this is one point she won't budge on. At least you're smart enough to give up and not add to your sea of relationship troubles.

Instead, you dive right in, darting out past the breakers so as not to get sand in your gills. The visibility's not worth a good coddamn underwater, but you don't care. You're not here for the view.  
You're here to immerse yourself and not worry about your skin drying and peeling like it does when you go too long between showers, or the way that you seem to feel yourself shrivel in the air conditioning. Life in Seattle is designed for land-dwellers, and shit sucks. Getting out to the beach is something to be savored.  
  
Making Jane sit there for hours is a pretty shit move, so you make your way back and step out on to the shoreline, missing every bit of water that drips from your skin.  
She's immersed in her dog-eared copy of  _Murder on the Orient Express_ , so it's pretty easy to creep up and drape yourself over her. She shrieks, her book goes flying, and you can barely hear her proclaimation that she _is never going in no matter what you do_ over your gleeful cackling.  
  
Maybe you can drag her to the Caribbean or something. She might be more willing then.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Kanaya/Porrim; I believe the original prompt was "hot runway model Maryamcest.)

"I don't think," says Porrim very deliberately, "that this is working."  
  
You don't process it for a moment; your mind is on tonight, and Vriska, and your desperately made dinner arrangements as an excuse to ask why she has no time for you anymore.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said that I don't think this is working."  
  
 "What isn't?"   
  
Maybe a better question would be what  _is_ working, though the answer would most likely be a very emphatic "nothing."  You've been working yourself hard lately, your girlfriend is too busy gleefully tormenting her interns to even see you, and the piping in the bathroom of your apartment sprung a leak on Tuesday.

Even your clients have been avoiding you, especially Porrim. Tying her down today was difficult enough, and if you ever hear the phrase "I'll pencil you in" ever again, you may just be overcome with the urge to vomit.  
  
Vriska is picking you up shortly. Focus on that and not the striking woman frowning down at you.

"You're distracted."  
  
"My mind is on my work, as ever."  
  
"You've measured my hips six times."  
  
Oh.  
  
So you have.   
As you move to slide your measuring tape up to her waist, she takes your embarrassment-flushed face in both hands and tilts your head upward.  
The rings in her lip and eyebrows glint in the afternoon sun as she simply says, "Tell me about it."  
  
And surprisingly enough, you do. Everything comes pouring out; your elusive clientele, yesterday's parking ticket, the accursed bathroom leak, and most of all your deteriorating relationship.  
  
Porrim's hands settle on your shoulders, and she guides you to your feet. "I wish you'd told me that sooner."  
  
"It doesn't really matter."

"Of course it does. Especially how you're being neglected." She tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. "That's a real pity."   
  
That isn't true; Vriska is just busy, as are you, and your schedules just don't overlap well enough.  
  
Or at all.  
  
"Yes," you murmur, "I guess it is."  
  
The two of you face each other, almost intimately close; eye to eye, client to craftsman, gangling beast to beauty.  
  
It's almost a relief when she kisses you, tentative and restrained.  
  
The tape is still looped around her waist, and you use it to pull her closer.  
  
In your peripheral vision, you can see the door swing open.  
  
Vriska simply watches, jaw set in the way that it is when she doesn't want you to see that she's hurt. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Rose and Jade find Jumanji.)

No matter what Rose thinks, this is still  _the coolest game ever._ After all, you just killed a leopard in her kitchen! It's not every day you get to do something like that!   
  
Okay, it was sort of terrifying, especially since you didn't have your gun with you (stupid airlines and their stupid rules), but still.   
  
Rose is still slightly popeyed with shock, and you pat her on the shoulder consolingly before wiping the bloodied cleaver off on your feline victim's fur.   
She eyes you warily, fingers white-knuckled around the handle of her steak knife. "Dare I ask what's next on the agenda, Sheena of the Jungle?"  
  
You grin. "I don't know. Try rolling the dice!"  
  
"Funny, that's what you said before we were suddenly ambushed by a particularly irate member of the genus _Panthera."_  
  
"Come on, Rose, don't be a party pooper!"  
  
She rolls her eyes, and then the dice.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Eridan and Rose go to Starbucks, whereupon Eridan discovers that there's too much sugar in his coffee.)

Perhaps attempting to put petty rivalries aside by means of a lunch offer was a terrible idea.  
  
Point in favor of that possibility: your dining companion is currently tearing the unfortunate barista a new one for the mortal sin of mixing up his order.  
  
If you had known that he would be so heinously melodramatic over coffee, you wouldn't have proposed an outing at all.  

Instead, you wince as Eridan's voice hits a Rob Halford-esque high upon asking the barista if he  _knowws wwho the hell he is._

You had thought that maybe, just this once, he wouldn't behave like a pompous twit.  
 

Oh, you.   
  
So naive.   
  
So naive.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Latula teaches Mituna how to do a sick grind.)

Latula's hands are warm through her gloves, and you wonder if she's always run this hot. Maybe it's from the exertion. You don't know what you think.  
  
That sentence is very true, since  _the thing that happened_ that you don't like thinking about.

You let yourself come back to the outside word as she finishes explaining that you put your feet  _here_ , and lean like  _this,_ hands gentle on your hips as she tilts your body to demonstrate.  
  
"You got it?"  
  
"Yeah." You think. Maybe. You don't know.  
  
"Awesome. Okay, give it a shot!"   
  
You nod once (bad idea), let the moment of vertigo pass, and kick off. The rail you're using is pretty low, so it shouldn't be too hard to--do this--yeah.  
  
Then you're up and going and  _landing that fucker_ and Latula's whooping in vicarious triumph and you  _did it_ and everything, everything is  _just fucking sweet._  


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (The Condesce, alone after the Vast Glub.)

You rule over an empire of nothing, a queendom of ghosts and failure. The  _Battleship Condescension_ is silent beneath your feet, helmsman limp and lifeless in his nest of cables.  
  
You still descend into the screw-studded warren of corridors sometimes to harangue him; how  _dare_ he die on duty, how  _dare_ he fail his Empress, how  _dare_ he abandon you to the void.  
  
  
The human planet is so far away.

Space is so terrifyingly, maddeningly quiet.  
  
  
Most of the time, you perch on your throne and brood; despite your restlessness, you can only roam the confines of your ship so many times before the boundaries of your miniscule domain become torment and of themselves.  
Occasionally, you have a visitor, silent and flicker-eyed, bleatbeast horns ominous spirals of deeper shadow in the dimness.  
  
The Demon's Handmaid waits for you to turn and challenge her.  
  
You know how your duel will end.  
  
  
Perhaps you'll go through with it anyhow.  
  
  
  
You have nothing else left.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:
> 
> Oh my gosh have you seen the pocket trolls out there? If it's not too much, would you mind writing a lil drabble about Pocket!Kanaya and Rose? I'd love to see something downright diabetes causing about this and you're an amazing writer.

 

Aside from your (very) late cat, you’ve never considered yourself much of an animal person, so when Jade deposits a troll in your cupped hands during the mad dash across the campus from Abnormal Psych to French Lit, you find yourself at a loss. Why she bestowed the creature upon you, you have a fairly good idea; with no significant other and your roommate having scuttled off to run her grandmother’s company, your friends seem to have come to the consensus that you’re pining for companionship.  
  
It’s a bit silly, really. You were fond of your roommate, but her absence doesn’t reduce you to tears, and Jade’s constant attempts to set you up with every boy on campus (you haven’t the heart to tell her that you will never be interested in any boy, ever) do prove annoying, even if they’re done with the best of intentions.   
All of that is a moot point, however, as you’re now saddled with your very own  _huldrus alternii._ You slide the critter into your shirt pocket without taking a good look at it, glance at your watch, and promptly bolt off in the direction of the Scott Building, because you are already late and Quentin is going to  _eviscerate_ you.  
  
Twelve and a half minutes later, you come to a screeching halt outside of room 104, and after taking a moment to force air back into your burning lungs you cautiously ease the door open.   
  
Oh.  
  
The entire class is staring at you, including Dr. Beatrix Quentin, Ph.D, who is gazing at you with possibly the greatest amount of contempt you’ve ever seen on a human face.  
  
“I see you’ve finally decided to join us,” she drawls. “If I were in a better mood, I might even let you stay.” You open your mouth to apologize and request that she leave your entrails where they are, but she continues right on without stopping. “Unfortunately, I’m a little lacking in patience for students who don’t seem to care enough to be on time. Go home, Lalonde. I’ll see you on Thursday.”   
  
You wheeze out an apology regardless, do an about-face, and step back out into the hall. The door slams behind you. Knees wobbly from your sprint, you trek back to your apartment; thankfully, your route is downhill, and you arrive in short order.  
  
A wriggling sensation against your chest reminds you of what made you late to begin with, and you glower down at your shirt as you fumble with your keys. Jade may or may not be getting a piece of your mind the next time you see her, and you hold that thought grimly in your mind as you shoulder the door open.  
  
The wriggling grows more insistent as you lock it behind you, and as you  unbutton your pocket you swear you can feel a distinct pawing sensation. “Alright, alright. Cease and desist, I’m letting you out.” You reach into your pocket with some trepidation - do trolls bite? You’ve heard that they bite - while you settle down on to your bed. Thankfully, your fingers remain inviolate, and you scoop the creature out with a minimum of fuss.   
  
She’s curled into a ball, but upon closer inspection she’s about the size of your hand, clad in a little black t-shirt and a bright red skirt. You realize guiltily that she must have been awfully cramped, crammed in there as she was. Despite the common name of the breed, ‘pocket’ trolls are not actually meant for stuffing into pockets. By way of an apology you stroke in between her horns with a finger and she uncurls herself, long pointed ears twitching gently as she stares up at you with wide amber eyes.  
  
Oh.  
  
Well.  
  
That’s actually kind of cute.  
  
You carefully deposit your new (pet? possession?) companion on your thigh, keeping your hands ready to catch her as she finds purchase on the fabric of your khakis. She stumbles for a moment, but finds her footing; you catch a glimpse of green-tinted pads as she lifts one of her paws. A tiny hand takes hold of your shirt, and she uses it to steady herself as she frowns up at you. You stifle a smile.  
  
“What’s the matter, fair maiden?” you ask playfully. “Is your new abode not to your liking?”  
  
“That shade of chartreuse doesn’t suit you  _at all,_ ” she says, and you nearly fall off the bed in shock.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thirteen-blog-mauler asked:
> 
> Rose, Roxy (and Kanaya?) play Smash Bros. Hilarity ensues.

“And naturally, you choose the one with the biggest gun,” Rose says as you settle the cursor on Samus and tap the A button. “Is there some Freudian revelation you have yet to reveal to me?”  
  
“Yeah, the revelation that I’m gonna beat your butt until you beg me to stop.”  
  
“My very soul is afire with lust at your proposition. Take me now, you beast.” She waggles her eyebrows mock-salaciously, smirking.  
  
“You are so _gross,_ Mom.”  
  
“I learned from the best.”  
  
“I still don’t really understand what you hope to gain from your pre-fight banter,” Kanaya pipes up from her seat on the couch.  
  
“It’s the art of the psych-out, Kan,” you say loftily. Rose rolls her eyes and finally picks Zelda. “You have to get all up in your opponent’s g— _hey!_  You didn’t even wait for me to pick the stage! Oh my god,  _please_ tell me we’re not doing Final Destination.”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“You _suck.”_ _  
  
_“Only for you, mother dear.”  
  
“Did I say you were gross? Because I meant _super_  gross.”  
  
“Gross or not, I intend to emerge victorious. You may bow before me at your leisure.”  
  
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Ooh, we are not worthy, Grand High Jerkoff. Whatevs.” The match starts, and soon you’re in the thick of it, jumping and grappling and even dropping a couple of those teeny little morph ball bombs that only do 1 or 2 percent damage. Rose puts up a surprisingly good fight, but you have a lifetime of practice on your Gamecube, and you end up the winner due to your mad skills.  
  
“Aww _yeah_. Who’s emerging victorious now? Hail to the queen, baby.” Rose just gives you a look like you’re a goddamn paragon of stupidity, but you just stick out your tongue at her because that girl has some serious issues with fun. Letting loose once in a while isn’t going to make her explode.  
  
Kanaya surprises you then by extending a hand. “May I try?”  
  
“Be my guest,” says Rose, and passes her the controller. Kanaya’s claws snag for a moment on the purple plastic, but she frees them easily as she settles herself on to the floor next to her girlfriend.   
  
“Same matchup, Kan?”  
  
“That’s fine.”  
  
“‘kay. Prepare to bow down before the Roxinator.” You grin; there’s no possible way you’ll lose to Miss Priss over there.  
  
  
  
Two and a half minutes and three lives later, you find yourself sputtering incoherently in shock as Zelda strikes a victory pose on screen. “How the _fuck_  did you _do that?_ “   
  
  
  
Kanaya simply smiles, smug as a cat who’s eaten an entire cageful of canaries.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:
> 
> meenah/feferi, blackrom

When you look at her, all you can see is the Empress waiting to bloom into being, a nascent queen lurking in the planes of her face as you spit her cheery offer of friendship right back at her. You can’t help it, can’t shake the feeling that she’s about to cage you in responsibility until you claw out your own gills. It makes you itch under your skin. It makes you  _angry_ , goddamn it.  
  
You hate her. You hate her for her kindness, for her naivete, for her self-righteous shouldering of the burdens of all trollkind. You hate her for it, for all of it, for all that she’s done and all that she hasn’t and all that she might someday.   
  
You tell her as much in words that burn on your tongue as you spew them forth; the shock and hurt on her face is better than any of Maryam’s come-ons, and your bulge twitches lazily against the front of your pants, oozing tyrian through your boxers and down one thigh. God, wounding her (and by proxy your Empress) is fucking  _golden._  
  
Is that a little sadistic of you? Maybe.  
  
Does it feel fucking  _fantastic_? Hell yes.  
  
  
  
Maybe you can live with her after all.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fukawaii asked you:
> 
> condesce/vriska petplay condy very very top vriska very very bottom

With its proximity to the ocean, the imperial palace is cold, even more so when one is naked on all fours beside her supreme ruler. Evading a culling has never been more humiliating; Vriska can hear the court titter behind their hands as they file out the doors, and her cheeks flush bright blue. Enjoying herself is absolutely out of the question (even with that treacherous little sliver of her mind that maybe  _likes_ having control taken from her), but some prices one just has to suck it up and pay.  
  
Like this one.  
  
Mutiny is punishable by execution. Vriska knew that when she was conscripted, she knew it when she seized control of the  _Imperator_ -class ship she was assigned to, and she knew it when the Imperial Navy came for her.  
She  _definitely_ knew it when word came from on high that Her Imperious Condescension herself was offering her an out.  
  
She knows it now as the royal hand tugs upon her leash. “Sit.”  
  
Vriska wants nothing more than to sneer, to spit out a  _why should I_ , to pop the Condesce the finger doubled.  
Instead, she sits. She’s learned, though it didn’t come easily.  _Serkets don’t **submit** ,_ she’d hissed at the trainer early on.  
  
 _You will_ had been the reply, along with a heavy boot to the ribs.  
She had.  
Pain is an effective tutor, if a crude one.  
  
Her Imperious Condescension proffers a hand; Vriska licks her fingers and is rewarded with a pat on the head.  
  
She sits perfectly still as the Condesce scratches at the bases of her horns, weight back on her skinny haunches. There’s a twinge in her groin at the stimulation of such a sensitive spot, and a single bead of cerulean swells at the tip of her bulge before dropping to the marble floor of the throne room.  
The scratching stops abruptly, and a few fingers trail down her neck to stroke at the skin beneath her collar.  
  
“Oh  _dear_ ,” says her captor, voice dripping with ersatz concern. “Are we having a problem, little bitch?” Vriska whines, surrendering to the gleefully victorious part of her brain that says  _yes, you are, you love this._ “Then I suppose I’ll just have to help with that. Come on, get up.” As she rises back up on all fours, there comes the sound of a zipper opening, and the Condesce leans down to whisper in Vriska’s ear.  
  
“You’re nothing but a barkbeast,” she purrs, tracing down Vriska’s spine with one finger, “so I’m going to fuck you like one.”  
  
Vriska whines again, insistent, and her bulge curls in the chilly air, already slick in anticipation.  
  
As the royal hips press against her backside and she feels the Condesce’s own bulge begin to slide into her nook, she spares a fleeting moment for the thought that maybe she wanted this a little more than she’d care to admit.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> positivelyporrim asked you: 
> 
> have u written any blooddrinking rosemary i swear to god that is my biggest fucking KINK
> 
>  
> 
> (Warning for blood, then.)

Rose is ludicrously cocky from her position on your lap.  
  
She inclines her head almost lazily, something like amusement in her gaze. “Well? Is the terrifying creature of the day going to slake her unholy thirst or not?”  
  
Of all the people on your godforsaken chunk of space rock, Rose is possibly the last person you want to feed on. To your understanding, flushed affection is definitely  _not_  about puncturing decidedly large veins in the name of nutrition. Nor is it about your matesprit being  _willing._  
  
Rose can be very strange sometimes.  
  
Shaking your head, you forcefully bring yourself back to the present. “The terrifying creature of the day is wondering why you have any desire to do this whatsoever.”  
  
“Call it scientific curiosity. That and everyone else’s neck is already plastered with enough Hello Purrbeast bandaids so that nary an inch of skin can be seen.”  
  
You shift slightly, suddenly conscious of the fact that she’s perched on your lap and that your nook is awfully close to her human equivalent. Much to your chagrin, you’ve always been a little squeamish when it comes to initiating pailing behavior or anything similar. Finishing, you have no problem. You’re just terribly awkward when it comes to starting things. Like, for instance, right now. You’re dawdling.  
  
Rose is eyeing you with a mixture of wry humor and concern as you sigh.   
  
“Point taken. Are you ready?”  
  
“My body is braced for impact, so yes. Abso—”  
  
She never finishes the - _lutely_ because you dart forward and sink your fangs into her jugular. You feel her pained gasp resonate in her throat as your teeth dig deeper. This is the part you like least, that initial, brutal penetration. It makes you feel like an animal. In spite of it, you let out a rumbling purr of satisfaction. No matter your feelings on the matter, you need this.  
  
Your tongue roves back and forth on the perilously thin skin of Rose’s neck as you delicately lap up the blood oozing from the punctures you’ve made. She shudders, and you feel her fingers bunching uselessly in the fabric of your skirt. Her panting in your ear registers only dimly as you sate yourself.   
  
Humans taste differently than trolls do, heavier and more metallic. Rose told you at one point that it was because the compounds in troll blood are mostly copper-based as opposed to the iron in hemoglobin. Whatever the reason, the difference is something you’re quite fond of. There are distinctions between humans as well; Rose’s blood is less heavy on the tongue than Dave’s, and you savor it as you pull your fangs free and give Rose’s neck one last longing lick.  
  
When you look to her to discern whether or not she’s okay, her current state comes as a shock; she’s glassy-eyed and breathing hard. “Rose?”  
  
She brings her distant gaze into focus. “I— yes?”  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
“Never better,” she says, and to your surprise she pulls you into a passionate kiss, unmindful of the blood coating your lips and trickling down her neck.  
  
Maybe you should do this more often.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> naesnark asked you:
> 
> Alpha!Rose/Condesce is a guilty ship of mine. (this is a prompt)

 

"Kneel," she says, and you kneel because you have no choice.

You kneel because of the drones at your back and the chain round your neck and because your rebellion is dead with Strider, left broken and bloody on the deck of the Battleship Condescension. You kneel because you are sick with despair. You kneel because you are forty-six years old with nothing left in your life but to kneel. The clawed hand of a drone forces your head down, and you await the inevitable fall of the axe.  
  
It doesn't come. Instead, Her Imperious Condescension's feet intrude on your limited field of vision before stopping just in front of your bruised and battered knees.  
  
You do not tremble before her glory. You are too tired to tremble, and too bitter.  
  
For having so much blood on them, her hands are surprisingly soft as she peels the drone's spiky hand away and tilts your chin up with her fingertips. When you meet her gaze, her face is flushed and her pupils are blown in excitement and elation. Her victory thrills her; as it should; you and Strider were the last bastions of resistance left on your planet.  
  
The two of you stare each other down.  
  
Blood trickles into your eye from a deep cut on your forehead, and you blink first. The Condesce smirks  as the redness washes from your vision.  
  
"You disgust me," she says mildly. For once in your life, you lack for a response.  
  
"You disgust me," she repeats, "but trophies are often unpalatable things, despite the victories they represent." Her fingers flick downward, and her claws shred your shirt from collar to navel, taking your bra with it in the process. "Yet still we display them." She seizes the waist of your skirt and  _rips,_ tearing it down to puddle around your knees. Your underwear goes in another brutal yank, and the Condesce looks profoundly repulsed by your nudity.  
  
One last hurrah, one final biting remark before the end. "See something you like?"  
  
Her Imperious Condescension backhands you across the face.  
The furious curl of her lip is completely worth it, though you spit a canine on to the floor in a gobbet of bloody saliva.   
  
In a moment she regains her composure, though her fins flutter slightly. "I should execute you for that."  
  
"Might I suggest having me drawn and quartered? I hear it's all the rage nowadays."  
  
"But that's what you want, isn't it? A public spectacle, a grand sendoff for your futile little rebellion? Martyrdom for your stupidity? No, I don't think I shall." She smiles beatifically, exposing a mouthful of razor teeth. "But I think you'll look wonderful displayed at my feet for all to see."  
  
She snaps her fingers, and one of the drones standing guard lumbers forward to affix the chain holding you to the side of her throne.  
  
You say nothing, for there is nothing to say.


End file.
